


Just Plain Ordinary

by K3R



Category: Original Work
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Later rape, Loss of Limbs, Multi, Suicide kink blood kink, Tags Subject to Change, Triggers, Violence, long story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K3R/pseuds/K3R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes life is awful. Bad things happen to good people after all, right? But I'm not a good person. People have died because of me. People's lives have been ruined because of me.<br/>I may or may not have eaten a few of those people... It's all in the perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to feel your innards." He whispered.
> 
> Yeah... If you don't wanna read gory sex, emotional turmoil, long plot, and cannibalism... 
> 
> You may wanna go somewhere else. 
> 
> Just sayin'.
> 
> Come for the food, stay for the breakdown!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah... I wrote a thing.   
> Hope you like it.

My lower lip is raw from the sheer amount of gnawing that has been done to it; a stale, coppery taste assaults my tongue when old skin is torn back to reveal fresh, red tissue.   
I can't feel my mouth anyways, my lips are numb from the novocain. 

To the right of the bed the lamp crackles softly in its weak attempts not to sputter out, it illuminates the room set we both occupy, this man and I. He blinks softly, tilts his head into his right shoulder, gives two stiff coughs.

His eyes never leave mine, they haven't for three hours, not even to blink I'm quite sure... 

The lips are nearly nonexistent from their thinness. They stretch wide across his face in grim dissatisfaction, pale as stones and just as rough. 

The sunken face frames itself in a thick growth of curled honey-brown hair, the likes of which could be dashing sans the never ending growth of tangles and ever present... 

Eyes.

His eyes loll around in the sockets once and then electrify with some form of life. 

They are sunken and wide, a frightening kind of wide, nearly depthless and pitch black. Rings wrap around them deeply, his sockets are well defined and nearly blackened; the effect is eerily leaning towards macabre. He could be a skeleton: ashen, gaunt, elongated to a good six foot nine, which now is scrunched up into the likeness of a ball as he leers at me from the bed across the room. 

Timidly, I nibble my lip once more, his only source of clothing is the coverlet from his bed, I cannot see anything too perverse, though; the cloth drapes across his nimble form comfortably in width, just not length. 

It just stops above his ankles, not quite long enough to swallow him. 

His bones click noisily and I snapped my attention back onto him. Of course nothing much had changed, his eyes are still locked mercilessly with mine, never blinking and wide as platters. I supply a nervous, dry cough and avert my attention to my wrists for a moment. 

The scars are bad; even worse now with the fresh scratchings and bloodied teeth marks. I couldn't help it, he made me nervous. The cuts calm and soothe. They make his presence a blessing rather than the awkward situation that it probably was. 

What could I say? The ability to control whether I lived or died, it was intoxicating at its worst.   
There was a time when my death, a deep calming sleep, and three shots of Novocain sounded equally pleasing, just as well. 

There was a time long ago when I wasn't allowed around those of my age or even animals because of their temptation. 

There was a time not too much before my admittance that seeing the lifeblood flow from anything, practically anything that breathed, sent me into a frenzied set of fits. Screaming and singing all the way.

Now I couldn't get within five inches of a blunt blade if I tried. My oldest switch-knife, the tiny exacto blades, needles for the medication... I've always needed medication. But it was only when I started onto the dreaming medications that necessitized needles and prickling of my skin did I loose my goddamned mind. 

No... No more knives. No more tiny blades. But needles- Needles on the other hand; good god this place was brimming with needles: for panic attacks, for screaming, sleeping, enraged outbursts,   
for breakfast,  
lunch,   
dinner, 

-coughing if you count the elderly man down the hall-

For all of us, needles. Although I couldn't say that I minded in the least... Oh no, I absolutely enjoy the feeling of getting cut or penetrated with a sharpened object. The feel of cold metal playfully nipping along my wrists, throat; as sweetly as a lover. And then with patience it slices past layer after smoothie layer, the sounds make me salivate: dripping blood, metallic ching of the blade, a nearly obscene slapping of flesh against metal... Hungry and wet... Pounding a knife in and out of my side...

I squirm on the bed and make a soft noise, out the corner of my eye he twitches. I nose my pillow and whine louder, making sure to cry and mewl enough to catch his full attention. It does, he's nearly falling off the edge of the bed with curiosity. Cruel as I am, he is predatory.

I momentarily wonder why he is here, and then my voice cracks with need as an idea sloshes around in my head, not nearly formed but not quite mad.   
What if he were here for murdering someone, perhaps even harming himself along the way? He had to have done something abnormally wicked to belong here, especially alongside myself. My presence here is either greeted with morbid curiosity, nervousness, or deepest disgust by my peers. 

But this man, no this man was staring. This man was snarling and ready to bite. 

He was so massive... The whole of him could cover me easily, twice over... Those long, gnarled fingers edged with jagged yellowing nails could cut me easy, drag across my belly to form welts and tiny trickles. I shiver when he flashes me a toothy sneer. His teeth along with whatever jaw strength he possessed... This man could gouge out my throat in the most obscene ways-

I bring my mouth to my wrist and dig in, there is no time for playing around, my friend is watching, waiting oh-so-patiently.

And the pain is nothing anymore. 

Moans pour from my throat as the copper taste fills my mouth. 

My suckling turns loud and obscene after a very short time.  
But when my opened arm begins to spasm uncontrollably I hiss in annoyance around the wound. I hate my body and its natural defenses. They deprive me of even the calmest of obscenities. It is truly funny, ironic even; I've seen so many who have perished without purpose- as to say, they did not want to die or harm themselves but their body is taken by surprise and they bleed so... So so so so much. And yet... 

I giggle suddenly at the sick irony of it all, and he grins from the corner of my eye. He had come to my side a short time ago and was now stroking along my jawline. 

I feel a soft kiss to my temple before a hand came to my belly and squeezed.   
"I want to feel your innards." He whispered; so bold yet so damn shy. 

I allow my lips to curl upwards, he sounds much younger than I would have initially thought. 

"Can you cut me open?"

" I-I don't know..." 

Shrugging, I lean forward and wrap my arms around his back, pulling him onto me, 

"Then use your teeth." 

He shivered and pressed his hardness against my thigh. His eyes locked with mine; pleading silently for something, anything. I suddenly felt sick with him. 

"Get away from me." I growl, smacking his hands away when they reach for my zipper.  
His eyes dart to the blood bubbling from the gouged wrist and we both pause. I nuzzle my nose into the wound and groan, it's dripping all over my nose and cheeks. My mouth goes to it again and I suck, using my foot to kick my audience away.   
"Either you bleed me or you fuck off got it." 

His head drops down to my stomach and he nuzzles as a child would,   
"Can I eat you if I do?" 

My eyebrows twitch upwards in interest, is that why he was here then...? 

"Yes sir... You sure can." I mumble through my wrist. 


	2. Beginning to See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I may continue... I'm not sure. It's been interesting so far. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are welcome.

"Yes sir. You sure can."  
I mumble through my wrist; it gives a weak squirt of blood. 

His eyes go a bit wider, if possible. 

I feel teeth nipping along the underside of my belly and I groan, head swimming a bit. It's been about a year since I've last been with someone; even then it had been quick and mechanical. 

This boy is clumsy and new, yet so full of desperate energy that it was obvious that he'd been wanting to fuck but never got a chance.  
My eyes snap open when I feel a wet tongue starts lapping at the fabric between my legs, sniffing, little moans of want muffled against my uniform.

"Ah Ah!" I barked, popping him on the head, 

"Not there." 

His eyes snap up to mine immediately and he whines like a petulant child.

"Why not?" 

"Because." I snap at him, fingers snatching at the thick growth of tangles atop his head to yank him away.

"Either you do this my way or you go back over there and don't get fed or felt." 

He dangles there for a minute, probably weighing his options the little bastard, before turning his head to lick my fingertips. I lick my oozing wrist and watch him engulf them into his mouth.   
I pump the fingers in and out while his tongue stirs to life to sample them. Teeth gnash away playfully at the fingers; tongue outlining every inch. He's giving me a show, I decide. So I allow him to continue until I feel a bit lightheaded from the blood. 

That's right, I realize. We have a time limit. 

I pull the fingers away and his mouth trails after them, tilting up. It's sweet I think serenely; yet saliva dripping down his chin is anything but. I bring soaked fingers to my open wrist and dip them into the blood, getting just past the nails before pulling out and pressing them to his wet lips. 

Once he has them, obscene sucking noises fill my space of conciseness. The beginnings of arousal sprouts between his legs. 

"Do you want to suck my wrist?" I blurt out. 

He stills for only a moment before popping off of the fingers with a nod. 

"C'mere." 

His weight shifts as he crawls upwards toward my chest, eyes alight with something  
misplaced, hunger perhaps? 

His nose goes to the yawning wound and dips past the folds of flesh to nudge along the wet meat of it. My body betrays me and I begin to dry heave; the pain is beginning to really set in.   
The sigh passes through my lips as a prayer. He hums, indulgent. His eyes squeeze shut and I can see a little bit of a wet pink tongue dipping down into the wound. 

My breath hitches unceremoniously at this and I gently push my wrist further into his mouth. His member twitches against my leg, pre-cum beading on the tip of it. Poor little thing must be hungry, I realized. 

I go on, 

"You hungry baby?" I ask huskily. 

My tone is deeper than I would have meant it to be. He shivers, mumbles something under his breath.

His hips start rutting against my thigh and I smirk, twisting my free arm beneath his body and squeezing the dangling member hard. 

Shrieking through the liquid filling his mouth he chokes and pulls away for a minute. I tip my body forward to kiss his forehead. My tone is a bit too mirthful when I tell him it's okay and he glares. As an apology my fingers go down to him again to kneed the hot flesh; then to cup a bit lower and he rocks into it. 

"Come on baby, drink up and I'll make you squirt." 

The lips are back immediately and so it the wet tongue, lapping desperately into the now soaked hole. Saliva and blood pumped out and through the wound; I could no longer feel my arm. But I could feel him, bucking wildly into my weakening hand with strained hip muscles clenching. It wouldn't be long at this point for either of us. 

My arm spasms again with a thick spurt of blood and I feel real wetness on my leg. He chokes on a wet sob and falls still. 

I give him a few moments to recover before pulling my wrist away from him. 

A few moments of blissful silence later and I lay back onto the sweat soaked sheets. His hulking form scrambled messily to my side and his whole face was squished into the crook of my collar and neck, blood wetting the skin there. I didn't suppress the bark like laughter that followed. He really was just a kid. 

"Did you like that?" 

"Yeah." 

I stare down at him and notice that the edges of my vision are blurring. Panting softly, my head dips down to kiss at the crown of his head.

"I'm about to die." I whisper into tangled hair. 

It's simple, nothing really to fuss over. It's really a happy moment in my life, at least something of substance. Yet when he sits up and really looks into my eyes, I can tell it troubles him. 

"Hey, hey no..." He stutters, his lips and nostrils dripping with dark blood. His lips are trembling and his shoulders begin to heave, "you can't die. I... I just- no you can't die!"   
I stare at him in disbelief, how could he not know that there was too much blood? A sigh passed through me again and I attempt to sit up, failing. 

"I want to. It isn't an option anymore, anyhow." My eyes soften when he begins to cry, his nose stained with my blood and eyes squeezing closed like a little boy.

"It's okay. We all die sometimes; at least you and I had a moment. I'm happy with it, I've never been allowed so close to someone before. Never been allowed such passions-" 

"NO!" It's more a plea-filled scream than a demand. "PLEASE DON'T!" 

Alarm bells go off in the back of my mind and I am reminded of where we are. 

"Hush! If they find us like this w-"

"NO!" 

"Shut up!" I snap, suddenly irritated through the weakness overcoming me,  
"If the guards come in here they will take me away and burn my body up. Then, you'll really be alone, so shut up!"

"I want to be with you!" He wails, thankfully spooked into dropping the volume of his voice, but still far too loud. 

"Not every intimate moment makes a happy ending. We didn't even fuck and you already want too much. Go lay down. When you wake up I'll be dead and you will have a new roommate to stare at." 

My body is going numb when he starts to scream again. Something about not supposed to be like this, together, sister and brother. Things I've heard before but had forgotten. 

Really... Had I forgotten  
everything?

His eyes. 

His eyes are reddening and overflown. Something about them makes the anger subside. I couldn't stop my fingers from threading through his hair. 

"Just let me sleep." 

He shook his head hard and fell back onto my chest in a heavy fit of sobs and I cringe. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to die and he was going to eat my corpse or tear it up or whatever he pleased; but not this. 

"What's your name?" I mumble, eyes fluttering shut. 

"T-Thomas..." he sobs brokenly, never leaving my chest. It finally clicks. 

"What... What an ordinary name..." I mumble, voice constricting. It's hard to speak, but I give a wheezing laugh anyway. Wetness drips from my eyes as I try to stay conscious for a little bit longer.

" Plain. Just plain............."


	3. Beginning to Loose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He woke up.  
> Well that's odd, isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BLOOD.  
> Gore, vomit, just eww...  
> Plus:
> 
> (Rape threats near the end)
> 
> I don't approve of any of this in real life, but here is your boy.  
> Reviews are nice~

"Silence is a virtue, Milo." 

God, how long has it been since I've heard that voice? That strict, judgmental voice. So many years since she had spoken to me; I had been seventeen when she died... And yet there it was, plain as day.

Not promising. 

"You're dead." I croak: vocal cords swollen and muddy. It's extremely difficult even for myself to understand. But I'm sure she knew. 

"Apparently not to you. You should be ashamed Milo, you little bastard. I raised you to leave well enough alone."  
It was strange to hear any representation of her curse: she just never did it. It was almost funny.

No matter, I need to clear her up.  
"I've been silent." I argued through clenched teeth. Particularly close to grinding them out of old habit. "No one knows about you, they blamed it all on me."

I feel a tinge of pride when she gives an approving grunt. 

"How have you been fairing Auntie?" 

Cold, waxen fingertips press heavily against my chest to feel for a heartbeat. 

"Dead. As we've established. Probably rotting in my grave, no thanks to you."

"Oh no, you've forgotten; we ate you." 

A beat of silence before...

"Well, isn't that just fine." She spits out in disgust. 

"Just trying to get as close to you as possible." It's true. That was the main reason, among actively avoiding going to prison for murder. The police knew who I was. They'd never believed me if I told them that, yes, she really had stabbed herself.

"There are better ways, boy! Burn the body," was that humor in her tone? "And for Christ's sake, save my ashes."

I smile, despite myself.  
"I have a confession."

"I'm sure I already know what it is."

"I don't doubt you do."

Her fingers are cool against my aching wrist as she pulls it outward, examining it.

"Well, what is it?"

"I'm dying, Aunt Sarah."

The air goes stagnant for a long time after the words leave me, but my eyes are like lead and I can't lift them to see her as I listened for the inevitable outburst. Patiently waiting for her to answer was a chore in and of itself. I wonder momentarily if she has finally gone or if I had finally died. 

But I'm not that lucky. And she's not that kind. 

"You aren't dying. You haven't even left the hospital." 

"You have to be joking." 

"Not then, not ever. But mark me; you won't like the outcome of attempted suicide in a place like this. Not good. The outcome won't be good." Something sour lingers in her tone, not exactly how I remembered it. Of course this isn't abnormal. 

My memory fades in and out from time to time. Sometimes it's nice to forget. Sometimes it's not. 

Comes and goes. 

Forever and always.

Suppose it's the sickness. 

"Pay attention, Milo." She scolds. "Sometimes I wonder if you even know who or what you are talking to."

"I am. That is their design. Pretending that they want us well through cages and shocking out the sins..." Fatigue slips through me and I feel a dull burn from behind my eyes. My muscles ripple and tighten before loosening enough to give a slight turn of body. 

Hands slam down onto my bare chest as cold metal ghosts against my upper arm before-

FUCK.

"OH FUCK."

I tear into a state of consciousness with a full bodied sob to discover that my cot is surrounded by pasty-faced doctors that press me back into the sheets. They attempt to verbally soothe, yet physically restrain me; but nothing can stop the ever flowing gush of blood that squirts thick from my half-detached arm.

Vomit buckets from my retracting stomach and sloshes down my chin. The stench is rancid to the point that I wonder just how long has it been since I ate. 

The saw came down again to sever my final thoughts.

Now nothing can numb every screaming nerve as they are severed slow and torturous from the tendon. Nothing to drown out the continuous trickle of blood on the sweat soaked sheets, nor the wet plop! of fleshy chunks falling from saw teeth, nor the sharp crack! of bone breaking beneath hard, soaked metal. Not a damn thing can stop the ripped muscles from giving sharp spasms; still clinging to chunks of flesh lying on the table.   
Every smell is tainted of meat, sweat, and metal. Every sound is mine.

My brain pulses hard enough to fear an aneurysm.

A fresh wave of bile passes my lips and dumps into my hair.  
Dried bile sticks to my lifeless cheek and if my eyes would stop rolling in and out of their sockets I'd notice that even more bloodied mucus swirls within the fresher mix. 

Bodily-fluid cocktail.

How have I not DIED?

Or at least emptied out my stomach? 

Passed out?!?! 

"Anything! But God make it stop!!!"

And then it does. 

\----------

Waking again is another god awful task of self faith. Or maybe it was the double pump of adrenaline. Either way it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. 

"GOD!!!" I wail out, and if my pride were any more in tact I would have cringed from how youthful I sound; how helpless and utterly wrecked. 

A chuckle from across the room draws in my attention as a ready myself to slaughter some sadistic prick, but when my eyes snap to his I immediately close them. 

"You son of a bitch..." it's barely a whisper, but it wouldn't matter. The rage would be evident on my face. 

"I wanted to die and you-"

He cut me off with what was supposed to be a soothing tone,  
"I didn't call them. If that's what you thought; the yelling is what did it." 

"THAT WAS YOUR FAULT."

"You yelled too."

"YOU WERE YELLING CONSTANTLY." 

His voice drops, becoming testy,  
"Like you're doing now?" 

Red blots out my vision as I stare him down, plotting how to bloody KILL him without actually killing him. It would be a hell of an improvement if I tore out one of those buggy eyes or bit out that pink tong-

Well.... Not the tongue. It has a use. 

"Thomas, you are the worst." 

"God, I try~" he mumbles and I snarl at him.  
I have half a mind to beat him bloody..  
It wouldn't bother me too much. He was, after all, the reason why every inch of me was numb.

Oh no.

Oh fuck. 

Upon looking down, reality became all too sharp. My arm was gone. Or at least; half of it was gone. My left arm...

Just plain gone.


	4. Beginning to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milo is asleep...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... Let's see if this works.

Someone is breathing on me.   
My eyes snap open to find a little face pressed into my collar; his breath coming out in puffs as he sleeps on. When I adjust to the soft light in the room I immediately recognize the face.

Oh Cyril....

I must have fallen asleep.

Dreams like this are not uncommon for me. I truly remember things when I'm asleep. Funny enough, memories are less distorted when I see them in dreams than when I'm awake and being drugged. I suppose that should be problematic, but really it can be a blessing. 

'Cyril... What have I done to you...'

No.

I don't need to think of that now.

My muscles clench when his eyes blink open to stare up at me. 

I am so sorry. Why can't I just tell him that. 

Instead I lean down to brush my lips against his temple and he hides his face away. The signals against my chest in the dark tell me good morning. I whisper back the same.

He was unable to speak and had a weak leg due to birth defects, the cause being my mother's severe drinking and drug addiction before, during, and after our conception. We were just learning sign language at this age. 

Stretching, I pull him closer to me, enjoying his warmth while I have it. I can't remember the last time I've seen him in a good dream. 

When he begins to struggle weakly I let him crawl away a bit; if he gets to far I'll just tug him back. I always did when he tried to wander around in the morning. He was hyperactive. 

Funny enough, making noise was his specialty and mother was a light sleeper.  
He and I both knew that waking mother up before six in the afternoon would be detrimental; she was always more of a night owl. She would have been severely annoyed if we were to have woken her up; but she never harmed either of us personally. 

She tried to be a good mother some of the time, but she knew we hated her for what she did; for how stuck in poverty we would always be.

I feel a soft tug on my shirt and I glance back down at my smaller twin. He is squirming around, legs twisted tightly. 

Oh. I remember what that means. 

"Gotta pee?" 

His curls bounce when gives a hasty nod.

The bathroom is, thankfully, closer to us than to my mother's bedroom. Watching him try to waddle there by himself is sad, even now, yet somehow very sweet at the same time.

Once we are situated in front of the toilet, my hands go down to his trousers to pull them apart while he uses my chest as an anchor. He wobbles so I hook a hand around his belly and one around his chest. It's very intimate, I realize. 

A trickle of yellow liquid begins to drip onto my hand and I sigh. 

"Stop missing, Cyril." I mumble sorely at him.

He huffs in response. 

"You're getting it all over you- Cyril come here..." 

I hoist him onto the toilet and make him sit like a girl. His cheeks burn with shame as he glares at me, a small foot comes out, just missing my leg. 

"I'll hit you back." My voice comes out in a low growl. I'd have done it too. But he's my good boy, he just sits still as he finishes up. 

"You done?" I know he is. Knew then too just from the bored look on his face; he wants down. Probably cold too... He wasn't wearing much now. 

When he comes back into my arms I feel his skin prickle and I nuzzle his ear,   
"You know I love you Cyril?"

He nudges me with that cold nose and I turn my head to peck him on the cheek. He pulls away quick. 

He's smiling, it doesn't bother him. 

I wish he could have met Thomas...

Suddenly, my vision fades to black. 

\-----

I'm blind for only a moment; then a face swims into my view. A man with deep lines across his face and a lonely look in his eyes grips me by both shoulders. 

He's crying.

"I'm so sorry..." It's barely a whisper, but it sends chills up and down my body anyways. 

"Who... Who are you?"

"I'm so sorry about your mom and brother..."

No. 

"I knew your mother: I'm your landlord. I'm so sorry I didn't find you sooner." 

The man is babbling on, but I try to shove him away. 

Not this, not again. 

"Do you know anyone else that could take you?"

NO.

"No- NO! CYRIL!!! No!!!!" My voice breaks through the icy air like a pick, men and women in blue that surround us turn with distressed eyes.

One of the female officers is crying. 

It's not her place, I want them to stop it-

"STOP LOOKING AT ME!!!" I scream at her, enraged. She immediately tears her eyes away and scrambles towards others who will comfort her. She is so lucky. No one will comfort me now. 

The man in front of me gives my body a small shake as if to force the demons out, make the bad go away. He is trying to stop from crying too... 

"Where is my brother."  
It is more of a demand than a question. 

He bites his lower lip hard before whispering,  
"He's in heaven sweetie. He and your mother both."

NO. 

"WHERE IS HE?!?!" My voice is cracking, I don't care. "WHERE IS MY BROTHER?!?! HE'S NOT GONE-"

Something catches my line of sight to the right and I see it: two gurneys being carted off towards two separate ambulances. There are occupied black bags on each of them.

I scream.


	5. Beginning to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction of a new character. Poor Milo can't catch a break... But I guess there wouldn't be a story if he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I still writing this you ask? 
> 
> Blame it on the boredom.

It's time for my session with Dr. Judith. 

My voice is beyond raw now, having screamed myself horse to the point that I can no longer think straight. The dreams had left me raw, broken. Upon coming to the realization that I had, indeed, lost my left arm; I went into a fit. 

When they came to get me for my twice a week session, the insinuation that I bit off a small chunk of my lower lip was continuously thrown at me by the guard. I don't listen much, he just want to bitch. Already 'fixed my arm' he says. 

Shouldn't have to do any more this week.

I tell him that biting off a chunk of lip was a strong possibility; I fell in and out of seizures for the greater of three hours and I was weak as a crippled newborn. Didn't matter though. If I couldn't walk, he'd just drag me to the session. Can't see straight. Didn't want to.  


"Take this." He says, shoving something into my mouth before I even had a chance to ask what the hell it was. I choke on them; a handful of pills. Taste like chalk. I Stick into the back of my mouth for a bit until the guy looks away. I spit them out quick. 

I Hate loosing all feeling of control... That's what they do, those pills.

They take away your ability to think for yourself.

Use cognitive skills by yourself. 

Eat by yourself. 

Take a piss by yourself.

Be yourself.

I'm so much worse when I take them... when they are in me... It's like I loose all sense of inhibition, and my sense of pride alongside it. I've nearly killed myself over and over again when they shove them down my throat. See things, hear things.  
Feel things. 

It's like they don't want me to get better at all... 

It's like they want me worse.  
Hell, maybe they want me to kill myself, just so they wouldn't be blamed for it. But I don't really see why it would matter to them. They kill people all the time here. For the ones that have to live off certain medications like, insulin capsules for instance, all they'd have to do is just slip the patient sugar pills instead. Over and over until they collapse and die. 

Once Mrs. Sullivan, the lady that lived down the hall from me when I first arrived, made a fuss about how she was being treated. Said her doctor was touching her. The next day she got an injection of air. Bam. Brain dead. That's all it takes here. They aren't bloody unless they can get away with it. They aren't brutal unless someone is completely alone. No family, no power, no sanity. Then they can beat you until you die in a back room, rape you in every sense of the word, make you want nothing more than to just die. 

They fucking love it, everyone here is a horrible sadist in their own way. 

I'm not saying that what we did wasn't wrong. God no. I know I'm wrong. I know I'm a monster and so is everyone else that got dragged down here. What bothers me is just how much the people who are supposed to be our 'doctors', the ones that say all they want to do is mould us into normal people; how are they any better when they abide by none of the rules set by society. They are just as sick. 

Just as bad. 

"Milo, pay attention." 

My head snaps up instinctively to meet her eyes; this woman so much like Aunt Sarah in outer appearance yet with none of the awkward warmth. 

Dr. Judith; my psychiatrist.  
She never did like me, although in the beginning she made effort to try. What bothered her first was, despite my age  
(I was fifteen when they first transferred me here)  
she couldn't get anything out of me except polite dismissal.

I've only trusted four people in my whole life, she would never be one of them. And if my complete disregard for her trust wasn't enough to make her despise me, then my several attempts at attacking her surely did. 

Of course, I was still within my first few years here: alone and discomforted.

She asked far too many questions, dove too deep into my 'inner psyche.' She asked about my mother, father, aunt... Somehow she knew about my brother, Cyril. 

I had blacked out the first time, nearly taking her fingers off once they pulled me away.  
From then on out I was to be heavily medicated and kept handcuffed to the chair.

As I ponder these things she stares at me, waiting for me to speak first I suppose. It'll only end in a stalemate. No one ever wins against me in the quiet game. 

Something akin to satisfaction simmers in her stormy eyes; she is contemplating what to say.  
If I were to have my way, I'd just walk out and leave her to her paperwork and degrees and petty arrogance, rudeness be damned. But she won't allow for that, no, I'd get some form of retribution for attempting something so childish.

But what's worse is that she would be extremely satisfied if I did. She wants to be right about her theory, that I'm still a simpering child caught in the act, seeking attention. 

Maybe she is right; but I'll be damned before I let her know that. If she wants to shame me, she can take her best shot. 

I won't give her the satisfaction. 

"Milo. Pay attention."

I cock my head to the side to nuzzle at my shoulder, bringing up what used to be my left arm to scratch at my messy hair.

"I'm trying. If you can't tell, I'm a little... Underhanded?"

Worth a shot. Poor, but at least her audible noise of distaste makes up for my childlike sense of humor. 

"I have to say, I almost didn't believe the report I received this morning. You tried to bite your wrist out? A poor attempt at suicide Milo. A cowards way out if you were to ask me." 

I shrug.

'No one asked you.' I think. 

Instead I give a small smile and stare her down, "Tired of the food I guess,"

"And the guard, you tried to assault him when he came in to stop you."

Liar.

"Mmm... I guess I didn't want him to stop me." 

I've come to find that my voice instinctually deepens into a purr whenever I am trying to piss her off. 

"They said they won't next time; so be careful. Your surgery was far too expensive." She nearly smiles there. I guess it would be a 'happy accident' for her too if I were to off myself. She wouldn't have to listen to my smart mouth, nor see how smug I am at her attempts to draw out the disgusting details of my childhood and inner fears. 

"I'm sure it was for the best." I bite back the urge to snicker at the look I'm getting. 

"You are very ungrateful."

"That is true."  
It's not a lie. I have always been a little shit.

"What made you think that doing that was s good idea?"

"I didn't really 'think' when I did it." 

That was a lie. I'd been planning to do it for weeks. It was made all the better when the ma-  
No, Thomas. I won't forget him this time. 

It was made all the better when Thomas came in and got a taste.

My mind wanders to Thomas and what he must be doing now, all alone in the room. He really misses me when I'm gone... I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss him too. 

"Well, that's obvious." Mrs. Judith scolds.

I raise an eyebrow, confused.

"I'm sorry, what is obvious?"

"That you weren't thinking when you tore open your wrist, you didn't hit any major artery, and you were screaming gibberish the whole time you were doing it. So obviously you didn't really want to die wholeheartedly. But to make matters worse, you almost killed the guard that came to save you. Not only that, but you nearly molested him! Do you know how wrong that is, Milo?"

I stare at her, probably looking like an idiot from how lost I am. 

"I don't seem to remember all of that."

She scribbles furiously at her pad of paper.

"You've probably 'blocked it out' like the rest of your childhood memories. I'm sure that must be quite convenient for you."

"Very. I just love missing chunks of memory."

I hope she can feel the mounting annoyance in my tone. 

"I suppose you are used to that though. Using your faulty memory to get out of bad situations. Seizures and blackouts must be a blessing."

I don't even grace her with an answer this time.

"Tell me Milo, how did you feel when you hurt your wrist? Touched that man?"

I answer the first one under my breath,  
"Nearly taking my life was surprisingly refreshing and nice. But I do not remember the man, so I don't know."

She scribbles more, fingers flying yet eyes flickering back and fourth between my own.

"He's new. The guard."

 

"Oh?"

"Maybe you found yourself attracted and lonely and decided to play around."

Bitch.

"He didn't seem too opposed." I say through clenched teeth.  
Thomas didn't. He loves it when we touch, even if he can't draw too much from me. He always has loved touching; he's a physical person. 

The look I receive tilts towards scandalized and I can't hold back the giggle. 

I look over at the clock, we only have ten minutes until I can officially leave.

"Can we go...?" 

She ignores the question with an onslaught of her own.  
"Does this have to do with some form of molestation from your childhood? A repressed trauma? You must tell me, Milo. If I don't get anything from you, they will have to switch your medications and put you on lockdown for a week. I need to know what caused this so we can accommodate."

It's funny, how much she pretends to care. 

"Nothing to tell."

"What about when you lived with your mother...?" She questions, feigning a lack of interest. 

I roll my eyes at this; my mother never even looked in my direction, much less touch me.

"I don't think so."

"A teacher?"

Mmm... Nah. They were all too skittish of me. 

"Not likely."

"Your aunt?" she tries.  
At this point she is just shooting arrows blindfolded, trying to hit an apple. 

"Not a chance." The beginnings of discomfort lace my voice as a betrayal of consciousness; she is getting closer. Perhaps not to what she wants... 

But cause for repression all the same. 

I didn't mean to. She-

No.

"I don't think she liked me enough for that." I answer slowly.

"A friend...? Maybe a lover? Or are you suddenly telling me you've always been so adversative to sexual intercourse?"

"That's none of your business." I hear myself snap, my mind is receding without Dr. Judith. I won't be coherent soon...

"Did I touch a nerve?" 

Damn it. I've given too much away. Or tried to hard not to give away. Anyhow, she is catching on.

My eyes snap shut, "I just didn't want her near me. She ruined everything."

Dr. Judith blinks softly and scribbles something down.

"Milo... The guard is a man."

NO.

I won't let myself remember...

"I meant he-" I babble, nearly incoherent with panic. But changing the subject only leads to the opening of far more forbidden topics. 

Oh god no... Now my mind is wandering. It travels even further back into the recesses of my broken subconscious to draw out the root of it all.  
God not like this, not him.  
Cyril, what have I done to you....

Multitudes of long repressed memories are forcing themselves back up, dredging from the depths of my skull like a swarm of ants in a kicked nest. I don't want to remember this; not in front of her. 

I could almost smell her perking interest.

"Oh?"

"I've got nothing left to say."  
She knows I'm lying, she just doesn't know if she can get me to talk. 

"I can help you through it..."

How many times did I have to tell this woman to stop? 

"I'm okay."

"You don't seem-"

My body spasms as I fight of the onslaught of memories, not to mention the need to hyperventilate.

"I'm done for now."

My voice is firm, she knows I won't tell her anything else of substance today.

"That's all?" Disappointed laces through her voice.

"T-That's all." Desperation laces through mine.

When I open my eyes, I wish I hadn't. I've seen that spark in the eyes of many, many people. 

I know that smirk  
All.  
Too.  
Damn.  
Well. 

The door opens and a guard steps in to retrieve me. I'm about to have a  
panic attack, I bite my lip and taste fresh waves of blood; forgot about the missing piece of lip cartilage. 

It doesn't matter, the look in her eyes is a tell tale sign that I am in for something very very bad.  
The cat who ate the canary...

"I'll see you in two days Milo..." She purrs. 

I feel sick. 

I force myself to laugh,  
"I can't wait." 

It's a dirty lie.

Just plain sick


	6. Beginning to Understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sadness.  
> Poor Milo.  
> I've got to get better at chapter summaries,  
> even when they are short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos are sweet, but comments of criticism are sweeter~

"I can't wait." I try to give a hearty laugh but my voice cracks badly near the end and I curl in on myself in the chair. My doctor is one hell of a woman. So predictable. Unbelievably so. And yet...

She knew how to break me down, make me remember things that I wish could just stay forgotten.  
Don't miss understand me; she never got a thing out of me that didn't already come to her with my entry file. I never tell her anything of substance whatsoever.  
That doesn't mean that she doesn't know how to make me hate myself. 

But, that's not saying much.

I am pretty emotional.  
Maybe that's why I'm here. Emotions... I've never been good with them; hiding them. Ever since I was a kid I have possessed a defective personality, anxiety issues, and an attitude to top it all off. Although, I can't really say that I'm ashamed of my emotional outbursts. I'm not a psychopath. Empathy is one of my most valued traits, to be honest. 

And yet I have killed... What? Five to seven people in my lifetime all the while being barely old enough to drink. Oh yes, and my idea of sensuality is jabbing a kitchen knife into my stomach to see just how good it can feel to loose what little arousal I get from blood loss.  
And now Ive found myself openly sobbing in front of what I want to be the eighth dead person on my file.

Yes, that's exactly why I'm here.  
Because I am a 24 year old masochist stuck in my psychiatrists office curled up crying over memories as old as the dirt they are buried under. 

I belong here. I deserve to be here.

A hand comes to my shoulder; I don't have to look to know who it is. One guard in particular is very careful whenever he is placed in charge of escorting me back to the room.  
I don't know his name, he never really talks to me outside of a one sided conversation where I chatter on and he gives a small grunt of understanding. He always does listen, no matter what kind of day he seems to be having. One of his beefy hands would either come to my back or my arm and Shepard me towards my destination.

Dr. Judith gives a faux-sympathetic smile while the older guards scoops up my shivering body. A small cry of discomfort escapes my throat when fingertips brush against the tender cartilage of my scabbing. 

He jerks a bit at the noise, not expecting it to come from a twisted murderer, I suppose.  
I can feel his efforts double as he tries to not only pull me to my feet but to do so gently.  
It doesn't stop my squirming. So he keeps trying.  
But he is old. And if I'm honest I know he couldn't be any more gentle with me if he tried. It's really a feat for him to have hauled me this far for all this time. His movements are jerky and rough against my wounded limb; it isn't nearly healed enough to be grabbed at.

I know when he finally realizes that my arm is missing; its in his reaction. His eyes snap shut, his lips going thin. He is bothered.  
In what way I couldn't be sure, but I really don't care. What stuns me is that he really is bothered by my lack of a left limb. No...

Not bothered. 

Sickened.

Dr. Judith makes to stand subtly, all the while clasping the small pockets of her handbag shut. I watch her with venomous contempt. That simpering smile would be so easy to dash off her face with my fists; perhaps through me sinking my teeth into her jawline and giving a sickening crunch. 

Who knows, Doctor may taste good.

I feel my body leaving the comfort of the plush chair as my guard tugs me to my feet.  
Then finally, finally he is able to me against his broad chest and drag us both towards the door. We take baby steps, one at a time in sync. It takes a few agonizing minutes and an awkward shoulder shoving against the brunt of the door to swing it open. Then we are finally out into the deserted hallway. 

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot. 

Right foot.

Slowly we inch along, using the wall as a solid crutch, because God knows neither of us has the strength to support the other right now.  
"Have a nice week Milo."

It's Dr. Judith. Of course it is.

She would never skip out on an opportunity to see me break down; not when it is so hard to draw out anything else more interesting. As she passed us down the hall, her fingers come to brush along my jawline.  
My whole body flinches away from her and into the wall as I block out today's session topic. It wasn't my fault. I didn't mean to....

Oh god...

I crumble to the ground and he comes down with me, cursing madly. I instantly feel a swell of guilt in my stomach and my throat tightens. He snatches me by the collar and tries to hook an arm around a door handle near to him. It doesn't work. His knees connect with my thigh and I let out a small yelp.

"I'm gonna need you to get up- shit! Come on kid, I can't be doing this." He says in between strained grunts. His right arm hooks around my waist as the other reaches for the handle again. 

"W-Wait-"

Well, I guess he isn't mute.

"No. Come on, I need you back in your room. There are other sick people here that need someone to help them around and I know good and well you're not crip-"  
He stops gracelessly, nearly choking on a bit of spit caught in the back of his throat from finishing so abruptly. His eyes go wide before he looks away. 

"I'm sorry."

"I... I don't think you should be..."  
His head snaps up in an instant, eyes  
burning with quickly reddening veins and lid tissue. 

"Don't tell me not to be sorry."

For the first time since I've seen him I really look into this man's eyes and see just how sorrowful they are, verging on loss of life. They are a glassy-green, with little flecks of red pulsing around the whites brighter and brighter as he holds back from becoming to emotional.

"I..." My lips purse when he sinks down to his knees and grabs my shirt; I freeze when his arms encircle my trembling body.  
The arms that wrap around me are stiff, hardened from hauling around other people like me all day long. His breath comes out in hot puffs along my cheek and I smell the remains of last nights whiskey run.  
My nose twitches in interest, it smells promisingly good.  
I feel him tilt his head up before his face is pressed to the crown of my head. His nose burrows into my hair; its bulbous and dripping with wet warmth. I feel him softly sniff and I give a jerk. 

"What are you doing?" My voice is quickened, caught in my throat.  
His lips curl against my scalp. 

"You smell horrible. You need to bathe."

"Shut up." I breathe out, relieved.

"You need to take better care of yourself. You are an adult now, aren't you?" His voice comes from deep within his bulging stomach and echoes throughout the room. He flinches away from the noise and I smile gently; he isn't used to talking so much or at least, he doesn't talk in these hallways.

We pull each other back up this time. He is eerily quiet the whole way there.

\----

When the door opens, I stare at him longing. He has shown me kindness that I didn't think possible from someone in his position.  
The beginnings of hope form deep within me and I open my mouth to tell him he should stay for a while. What comes out is,  
"Thank you..."

He pulls me toward my cot and waits for me to crawl in.  
When I do he pulls the sheets over me and ruffles my hair. I repeat myself a bit louder.

His shoulders hunch in a half shrug in answer and he begins to walk out, I straighten up from the bed to look at his retreating back. 

"You look a lot like my grandfather did." 

It's a near whisper, I'm half afraid he heard me.  
He is surprised. I can tell by the way he paused at the door, ready to close it but curious as to why I brought up this topic. 

"You have his eyes." My voice is weak, trembling from the effort to keep talking to him. I'm curious myself as to why I'm continuing.  
If he speaks, I can't hear it.

"You have his eyes..." I repeat, more to myself than to him. 

".... I heard you."

I hear myself hiccup,  
"Don't leave yet?"

"I have to. You aren't the only one who needs me."

Something in his tone betrays him, guilt I suppose.

My body sinks back into the sheets. Don't know why I expected him to stay. The door closes with a click of the lock and I sob. Fatigue washes over my body like a tide and the feelings of just plain sickness wash away with my memories. I won't recall anything that happened today the next time I see Dr. Judith, I never do. 

I belong here.


	7. Beginning to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to how Thomas and Milo met. So cute.  
> Everything begins and ends with blood.

It smells like wood here, damp wood and dust. 

Eyelashes flutter just enough to find the floor covered in old pictures, stacks of books, a puddle of water. A pair of soaked shorts hang dripping from the ceiling, having just been washed out. 

I know this place; it's the attic in Aunt Sarah's house. Upon looking down I find that I am naked; the loose fitting jumpsuit is gone, just bare skin that is far too small to be mine. It's sweltering in the attic, I realize.  
A thin sheet of sweat covers my whole body and drops of it try to roll into my eyes only to be stopped by the thick lashes. That must have been why I'd removed my clothes in the first place: to wash out the sweat.

Wobbling, I climb to my feet to edge my way along the wall towards the window. It really is Sarah's home. Exactly how it used to be when I was a little kid. And I was exactly where I always liked to be in the summer: in the attic looking at old photographs and reading fiction novels.

As I stare out the window, a boy carrying a chunk of brick in his hand catches my eye. He's pacing along the fence, glancing at the window every once in a while. He doesn't see me. Or maybe he did. I never found out for certain.

A smile breaks over my face as the memory licks over me like a warm flame. I know what day this was... It's the day that I-

BAM!

The window shatters into about a hundred pieces before my eyes, causing me to wail out in pain as a couple of shards catch at my naked skin. Slowly, I look down to assess the damage: a half dozen or so oozing cuts along my legs and belly, one or two really bleeding thick. I would have been enraged if I didn't know who had thrown the damn brick that broke the window.   
When I look out the window; I find him.

A lanky boy with honey brown curls and enlarged black eyes stares up at me.

He would say later that he hadn't known that anyone lived there, he thought the house abandoned from the state of disarray it had been left in. But at this moment I could read the conflicting emotions in his eyes like scripture. 

"What the hell is wrong with you!!!" I holler at him. He just stares at me like I've grown two heads. I know what I have to do, what I did, but I'm not sure if I want to. But when he leans against the fence and smiles up with that shit eating grin, I pick up the brick.

"You'd better run bug-eyes!"

He doesn't. 

The impact of brick connecting with skin renovates back to me. I see him smack the ground, his palms scraping the gravel sharply. His body rolls off the sidewalk and onto the gutter trap and panic flares in my mind, instinctive.   
Why had I done that?  
Damn it.

The pair of shorts hanging from the ceiling are still soaked, but I throw them on anyway and head to the bathroom in search of medical supplies.

It takes three minutes and I'm down in the gutter with him, arms burdened with bandages. He isn't dead. Well obviously... But he isn't in good shape either. 

Most of the bruises would last for several months, some of the cuts would turn into lifelong scars. I pull up the tee shirt he wears and cringe at the prominent bruising blooming with fresh color. It wasn't pretty, but I'd seen far worse and so had he.

His palms got the worst of it, however; the skin pulled back several layers to reveal irritated, reddened tissue dripping thickly with even darker red blood. Little chips of concrete imbed themselves into some of the deeper cuts.  
Little blades of grass stick out of the wounds, some drip out lethargically, some are held in place by congealing blood and sticky white pus forming around the edges of torn flesh.

He is smiling. He always did when we fought, it's what he is used to. He can deal with fighting, the pain that comes with it; it had become a lifestyle for him at this point. Bruises like these were his bedtime kiss. Cuts along his palms were merciful. 

"Who are you?" He enquirers softly.  
His breath is foul, my nose wrinkles. His fingertips ghost along my naked belly and I bare my teeth. He grins wider and presses his forefinger into one of the glass shard embedded into my flesh.

I bite the hell out of him. 

He gives a pained laugh, asks me if I'm satisfied.

I wasn't then and I'm not now, but I know I won't do anything else. I didn't feel like fighting. I just wanted the glass out of my body.

"Sorry." It's all I can manage. He laughs again, I stare at him, bewildered.

"Thomas. Nice to meet you Sorry." He says.

I stare harder, unable to tell if he is crazy or.... Crazier.

"What....?" I finally ask.

"Your name. I asked your name. My name is Thomas."

He makes to stand, fumbling once before deciding that I should help him. I comply because I wanted to go back in the house and get away from him quick. 

"What an ordinary name." I mumble, aiming to insult him. It was petty, but I reasoned he was being childish himself.  
Fingertips brush my jawline and I flinch away, 

"Just plain ordinary." he agrees.  
He was much taller than me, even then; curling in on himself only so we were eye level. I started to walk away when he grabbed my arm, pulling me back.

"You never answered me."

I itch to bite him, it wouldn't do much good. 

"Leave me alone." 

Always so stubborn.  
I took a few steps before he blocked me off, head cocked to the side as he stared.

"Can I at least see you again?" he asked, sheepish.

"I just hit you with a brick." I reason.

"You also patched me up." 

I give him a wholehearted glare,  
"You don't even know me!" 

He seemed somehow hurt by this, but it was true. I'd never met him before this day. We focus on each other for a moment before locking eyes.   
His eyes are so dark. They seem depthless as he stares at me. He won't look away, not now. We both need a companion.

"You can't just walk away now. Our destinies have crossed! We will be forever enemies or lifelong friends. You can't just walk away."

"Watch me." 

And I do.

The scene around me fades to black as I drift off, yet I am somehow happy as it does so. I'm glad I haven't forgotten the good things about Thomas, about us, about our life before it all went to pieces.  Not when I'm asleep, at least.


	8. Beginning to Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A much darker insight to the childhoods of Thomas and Milo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHILD MOLESTATION WARNING. 
> 
> Please, please, please do not read if this bothers you.  
> I do not condone it.  
> I hate it in fact.  
> But this is a major reason for why they killed these people.

Warmth spreads across my skin like a hot flame, someone is between my legs as a throbbing ache. My innards writhe, snakelike, in carnal pleasure at the feeling of being touched. My hips arch against my will as a cry of need passes my lips.  
Hot and soaking wet is the mouth pressed against my sex, sucking hungrily. Tasting all of my shame. 

The man, his name was Jeff, he was not new to this. He had been a family friend to Thomas's uncle for years. He started with Thomas when he was young, then his cousins, now me. He convinced Judy, the middle cousin, that he loved her and that she could find power in hurting Thomas and I because we were little kids.

She was hesitant at first. But it didn't take long to convince her.

If I wasn't so guilty I would have scream. If I weren't so frightened I would have killed them.

I hate them. I hate them for what they did to us, what they made me feel. How they hurt him for so long. How I let them hurt us both.

Thomas... He lays beside me, biting into his wrist to keep from crying out, his head twisted away from me to keep from looking at my naked body.   
He knows how I hate it when others look. 

So he won't. He looks away as his cousins fingers work their way in and out of him. She is smiling. She likes the way he cries when he's forced. One day I'll kill her and her boyfriend. 

They won't see it coming when I lock them in the attic, my place of solitude. I'll rip them apart.   
We will taste flesh, one day.

But today, we will be raped by Thomas's older cousin and her middle aged boyfriend.   
I'll get pregnant. I hate them both so much, I always will. 

Another hard suck makes me yelp. My head is aching from continuously trying to bang it into the tile beneath me; I want to black out so bad.

Was I a coward for wanting to die?

For fucks sake, we were only eleven.

Thomas squirts hard onto the tile, sobbing to Judy.   
"Just let us go back to bed- let us both go, please. We have school tomorrow please..."

She giggles and shakes her head, black eyes staring directly into mine.  
"I want her." Is the only answer we get.

I empty my stomach onto the man, I'd go to school in the morning with a black eye and a bad limp.

Jacob Miller will tease me, tell me how klutzy I am, the trip me. The teacher won't see the blood oozing from my lap as I try to read my history book but he will notice my limp on the way out; he would not question me. They thought I was messed up, maybe hurt myself.

Jacob would come by later with his friends and say I'm a homeless girl, that no one wanted a homeless girl except the crazy cat lady that lived in my house.  
In seven years I will break his jaw with a pipe, Thomas would run him over with his car when he tried to run away. But for now, he was content to be his normal, spiteful self.

Just plain spite. 


	9. Beginning to Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bath time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a day it will be when I can write a good summary. 
> 
> Whoops, I rhymed!

Upon waking up, the first thing I notice is a small bar of soap pushed against my toes.  
The old guard is seated on the edge of my bed, his nose buried in a novel whose title is so worn that it's illegible.

The hand not clutching the book comes down to stroke my hair softly. I feel him wrap a particular curl around his forefinger, twisting it over and over. 

He hasn't noticed I'm awake yet. 

I turn my head very slow, eyes closed so I look asleep. My lips touch his palm and I feel him still.

His eyes search me, the intensity of the gaze could be tangible. He doesn't know wether to wake me or not. I breathe against his palm softly through my mouth.   
He strokes my cheek fondly. 

I sniff at the palm, it smells like tobacco, some sort of chicken. My stomach growls. Reaching forward, I nibble at it. 

He clears his throat, the hand pulls away as if it had been burned.

"Wake up Milo."

I nose at the sheets in a lethargic fashion to make it seem like I am just waking up.   
He looks undecided, confused, a wide array of emotions clashing behind his watery eyes.  
I have obviously done something wrong. 

"Why are you here...?" I question him.

He normally isn't the one to take me places, he has a couple of times... But still. Twice in a span of two days isn't usual.

"No one wants to take you. Not since you molested that man." His voice is stern, yet his eyes hold a touch of discomfort. 

Did my actions really bother him that much?  
Still... He didn't need to infer that I had been molesting people; I had not. The last person I'd ever been with was Thomas and he certainly wasn't against it. 

"I didn't molest him."

"You didn't?"

"No."

The touch of discomfort in his eyes vanishes, replaced by annoyance. 

"I know you did. We have eye witness accounts of them having to pull you off. You'd tore open your wrist. You were in the act of force feeding the blood to him and jerking him off."

My eyebrows shoot up, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I don't know if you are playing dumb or if you blacked out or what; but you're lucky he wasn't hurt too badly. I'm ashamed of you Milo. You know better than this."

His words send chills throughout my body as it all sets in. Not Thomas? Then who...? Some unnamed guard, one who I somehow thought was Thomas?

But how could it not be him? I heard his voice! I saw him!

No...

It couldn't be some random guard, it wasn't.   
I saw Thomas. I heard him.

"You're lying." I seethe, my tone dropping down a few octaves. He must be lying, I saw Thomas. He won't lie to me. I won't let him convince me that I am insane; he's just like the others, Dr. Judith and all the rest. 

The hair on the back of my neck bristles when I receive a threatening glare, he isn't buying it nor is he impressed.  
The old guard stares me down, his tone icy,  
"Go take your bath Milo." he says.

I puff up, try to be intimidating when I know he has at least two hundred pounds on me. 

"No." 

And just like that I was being half-dragged, half-carried down the hall. He has me by the scruff of my collar, choking out furiously. I can't breathe! When I get too loud he just shakes me. I make attempts at smacking him with the stub, scratching him with my fingernails. Might as well have been scratching cows hide.

"You have to stop doing these things! You have to stop hurting these people or you will never get better, Milo!" 

We jerk to a halt, keys jingling furiously as he unlocks the door.  
"You don't have to remember, just stop hurting others! Stop doing these things!!! Do you want them to take you away?"  
Spittle flies from his mouth in his rage-filled fit. "Do you want to be sent away?!?!"

All I can bring myself to do is stare.   
Sure I'm enraged, but I can't make heads or tails of what this man is talking about.

"What does it matter..." I ask softly.

The door swings open and I'm flung into the room, he steps behind with unyielding rage etched into his face. I'm not given time to decide anything before he's stripping me. 

My eyes shoot open, "No- No STOP!!!"

"Be quiet, Milo. I'm in no mood for your games."

It's a struggle, with the uniform acquiring buttons instead of a zipper, not to mention how hard I'm fighting his hands. He squishes me against his overweight chest, I'm stuck smelling the tobacco and stale sweat. I cuss him wildly, threatening, anything to make him stop pulling the clothes off. I begin to bite his invading arms defensively. 

When I'm finally naked, he hefts me over his shoulder, taking a few steps forward. We stop.

Here it comes.  
My eyes squeeze shut as I wait for the inevitable: he is going to touch me. 

But then he doesn't.

I'm set down gentler than I'd have thought him capable. Warm water laps at my legs. I flinch when a high pitched squirting sound erupts to my right.   
He's squeezing some gooey paste on a sponge, forcing it to lather into a frothy white.The goo that came out smells sickly sweet, like sugar apples. 

It's soap. 

At least, I hope it is.

"Wash yourself. I don't want to even see you right now, much less touch you." It's meant to hurt my feelings, maybe make me guilty. But all I feel is relief.   
He isn't going to touch me. 

"Mmm."

I watch his back as he retreats out of the small door. A click assures me that it's locked.  
Wow... He must really trust me.   
I may not agree with him on molesting the other guard, but he was right about one thing, I am filthy. 

Dipping the sponge into the water I get it warm, scrubbing it into the caked on mess that covered my skin. It's mostly sweat and mucus, but there is a bit of blood here and there still. The doctors that cleaned my stub up did a shit job. 

Looking around the room, I notice several things that make me curious. This place, it's a standard bathroom. One tub, a small sink with a vanity, and a toilet. Tacky wallpaper lines the room, making it seem even smaller. 

Are these his private quarters?

Oh well.

As long as he keeps his hands to himself as much as possible, I won't tell anyone about the special treatment.

\------

Thirty minutes later and the water has turned a light shade of brownish red. I feel much better. 

"H... Hello?"

A muffled voice comes from behind the door,   
"Are you done?"

"Yes..."

The door swings open again and I see that he's toting a small bag and towels. His eyes have softened considerably. 

"I've brought some ointment for that arm and your lip. Some towels..." 

Oh... My lip. My fingers press against the small hole where I bit out the chunk the other day. It didn't hurt me much anymore, plus if anything, I was still in shock due to my arm. No surprise there. 

Yet my lip; I'd completely forgotten. 

But he hadn't.

"....Thank you...."

He's gentle when pulling me out. I'm made to stand directly in front of him, wrapped in a couple of towels. He is quick, yet somehow gentle with his massive hands as he applies the ointment to all of my wounds. My stub is wrapped with gauze. 

"I'm taking you to your room after this, I'd like for you to stay put this time, okay Milo?"

I just nod. 

If things get any stranger today I think I'll go back to sleep.

"Feeling better?"

"Squeaky clean, I guess."

He smiles, I'm handed another uniform.

"You..." He starts to say something, mouth hanging open as he ponders how to put it,  
"You look so much like Daphne. When you aren't pretending to be horrible, trying to push the world away." 

I don't know who that is. 

"I'm sure I do." I'll humor him. After all he is old; Daphne is probably his wife or something like that. It makes me wonder, though; was he saying this out of guilt for me telling him he looked like my grandfather? He did. I'd never met him. Only seen pictures, but he looked like a much older version of the pictures.   
Only thing is, mother would tell us about how he jumped off a bridge when she was a teenager. Committed suicide. She says the day she found out she started to drink. So it couldn't be him. 

He smiles sadly, "Do you know who that is?"

"What?" Damn. Distracted again.

"Daphne... Do you know who Daphne is?"

I don't do anything for a moment; this time pondering myself. Should I just... Lie?   
No. No, probably not. He would call me out for it and at this point I'm too tired to argue with him.

I shake my head slowly.

"I didn't think you did." His eyes seem to sink, pain filling them. I wish he would just leave it alone. 

"I'm glad you don't remember though. It would be to much. You don't need to know everything. That's why you are here."

He ushers me towards the door with a smile on his lips,  
"So I can take good care of you. Even if you don't remember when I do."

I'm drifting with him, slow and easy. This man rambles worse than me. To bad for him that I'm only catching about half of what he is saying. We make our way down the hall, he keeps going.

"You belong here, Milo."

I nudge his stomach when we reach another door. His voice is comforting. 

"Stay?" I ask him, worried that he will say yes or no. 

"I have to. No one else will." 

**Author's Note:**

> I... I'm sorry.  
> I condone no part of this fic, never will; but it's becoming... Nearly therapeutic in a sickening sense. Still...  
> If you want to comment, be my guest.  
> It's not edited, not really, and it'll constantly be up for change. 
> 
> But I've got a plan. Sort of.


End file.
